


Vital Signs

by chelicerata



Series: Vital Signs [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Peter is 18, Tony is a mess, Using Alcohol as a Poor Coping Mechanism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:21:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23503045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chelicerata/pseuds/chelicerata
Summary: FRIDAY tells him Peter’s downstairs asking if he can see Tony.“Sure, send him up,” Tony says, despite the nagging voice in his head telling him not to. He takes another swig from the bottle. There was a reason- there was a reason he shouldn’t see Peter right now. But, fuck it. He likes Peter. He wants to see him. He always wants to see him. Wants to touch him, wants to remember how real he is-
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Series: Vital Signs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749523
Comments: 37
Kudos: 205





	Vital Signs

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in some vague handwavy post-Endgame-ish world where Tony wasn't married to Pepper and is no longer dead. Somehow. IDK, magic.

Tony’s way further into the bottle of scotch than he should be when Peter shows up to the Tower. He’s sprawled on the couch, staring at the ceiling, bottle loose in one hand that’s draped off the side and onto the floor. He’s- drunk. He’s really drunk. The ceiling is spinning. He doesn’t think he meant to get this drunk, but- it had been one of those nights, where the crushing weight of his own mind had been threatening to suffocate him. Where even just being _moderately_ drunk and working himself into exhaustion hadn’t been enough to help keep the memories at bay.

He’s had a lot of those nights, since coming back from the dead.

FRIDAY tells him Peter’s downstairs asking if he can see Tony.

“Sure, send him up,” Tony says, despite the nagging voice in his head telling him not to. He takes another swig from the bottle. It’s been a while since he’s let Peter come over for anything other than their normal lab time – he’s been trying out this new thing called ‘appropriate boundaries’. There was a reason- there was a reason he shouldn’t see Peter right now. But, fuck it. He likes Peter. He wants to see him. He always wants to see him. Wants to touch him, wants to remember how real he is-

He spends some more quality time watching the ceiling spinning. It’s nice, like this, because every time he starts to worry about something it disappears back into the swimming, buzzing feeling in his head almost as soon as it pops up.

He hears the elevator doors open.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter says, uncertain, from across the room. Tony pulls himself up to look at him. He can’t quite manage sitting up on his own, so he more just – slumps face forward against the back of the couch, bottom half of his face pressed into the cool leather of the cushions. He can still see Peter like this, so it’s fine. Sweet, worried, _alive_ Peter, wearing one of those adorable little science t-shirts of his (‘I Make Horrible Science Puns… But Only Periodically’), clutching the strap of his backpack, eyebrows drawn together as he takes in Tony’s current state. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Not enough, baby,” Tony says, waggling the bottle at him. He takes another drink. Hmm, he probably shouldn’t have said that. He tries so hard not to say things like that to Peter. Peter’s eyes get big and concerned. He walks over slowly, dumping his backpack on a chair, and carefully pries the bottle out of Tony’s unresisting hand.

“You can have the rest,” Tony says generously, waving his arm.

“Is… everything okay?” Peter asks. He puts the bottle down on the coffee table, far enough away that Tony would have to remember how to coordinate standing up if he wanted to get it back.

“Everything’s great! I’m here, you’re here, neither of us are dead, what more do I want?” Tony says. He rolls back over so he’s upright on the couch. He means it, genuinely. Peter’s alive again – and Tony’s around to experience it, that’s nice too – and that’s all he needs. He just wishes the rest of his brain could get with the program.

“It’s just, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink this much,” Peter says hesitantly. Well, that makes exactly one of him among everyone who has ever spent a significant length of time around Tony. And Tony’s been doing so well at acting like a functional adult, too. 

“Maybe I just wanted a drink,” Tony says. “Adults do that sometimes, you know.” How would Peter know that, Tony thinks, he’s barely eighteen. (Tony is shamefully aware of exactly how long Peter’s been eighteen.) Had Peter gotten drunk at high school parties? Has he been spending his first few weeks of college freedom getting shitfaced? Tony thinks it’s the sort of thing Peter would tell him about, but who knew?

“Okay, well, you _are_ drinking directly from the bottle-” Peter says. His mouth twists a little.

“Look, kid, this is the patented Tony Stark Experience. Sometimes you get a front row seat to all of my terrible life choices.”

Peter bites his lip and comes over to sit next to Tony on the couch.

“If there’s something you, you know, wanted to talk about?” he asks, pressing on bravely. He smiles a little ruefully. “They keep telling me it’s supposed to help.”

“You don’t want to hear that shit,” Tony says. “It’s not a very nice place, the inside of my head.” He drinks in the sight of the concerned look on Peter’s face. He reaches out a hand to touch the worried furrow between Peter’s eyebrows. “Don’t worry like that. ‘S all part of the job description.”

Peter moves a little closer to him and grabs the hand tracing the lines of his face. He doesn’t let it go, though, and somehow their hands end up tangled together. It’s nice.

“It shouldn’t be,” he says, voice serious. “You shouldn’t have to deal with things like this alone. There should be… someone should be there for you.” It’s naïve and painfully sincere, and Tony feels it ache deep in his chest. “I know you haven’t had time for me to come over much, since you… got back.” Got back from _being dead_ , sure, you could put it like that _._ “But I could, if you wanted. If it would help.”

He’s so sweet. Tony doesn’t deserve this. Doesn’t deserve him.

“Haven’t had time. Yeah.” As if sober Tony hadn’t been making excuses to try and avoid this exact situation from ever, ever happening – Tony with zero self control and Peter just a little bit older than before (still nowhere close to old enough), smarter and more mature but still just as fundamentally good as he’s always been. “The lack of invitation didn’t stop you tonight.”

Peter flushes a little and cuts his eyes away.

“I…” He sighs. “Well. I thought you were mad at me. That that’s why you were so ‘busy’ all of the time. I just needed- wanted to see you, and figure out- but we don’t have to talk about that now. Clearly that wasn’t-” He looks back at Tony for a long moment with those big brown eyes of his, clearly drawing conclusions as to what Tony’s been doing when he isn’t there. “It’s okay. I’m here now, if you need someone.”

“You shouldn’t have to worry about me, honey. You’re so sweet.” He slides closer to Peter, who tenses with surprise, and ends up pressing his face into Peter’s neck only halfway on purpose. He can feel Peter’s pulse jackrabbiting underneath his lips. Alive. “So fucking sweet. I’m not mad. I’d keep you around all the time, if I could. If you’d let me.” The words spill out before he can stop himself.

“You don’t actually mean that,” Peter says breathlessly. “I would- I do let you- I want-” Tony breaks off his stuttering by nuzzling a little and drinks in the way that Peter reacts to it. That’s the problem- that he knows Peter wants it too. It makes it so much harder to be the responsible one, a role he’s never been particularly good at. 

“But for how long?” Tony murmurs nonsensically. “I want it too much. I want you all the time, that’s why you have to stay away.”

“Mr. Stark, you’re really drunk, I don’t think you know what you’re saying,” Peter says, voice high. His hand comes up to hesitantly touch Tony’s hair. He doesn’t push Tony away.

“I know exactly what I’m saying,” Tony says, and it seems like a great idea to start kissing Peter’s neck. What the fuck does sober, responsible Tony know, anyway. Peter makes a startled little _ah_ sound and melts into it. His hand in Tony’s hair tightens involuntarily, pulling his head closer. Tony kisses up the gorgeous pale line of his throat, and Peter shivers and tilts his head back to give him better access. Tony runs his other hand down Peter’s chest, catches the hem of his shirt, slips his hand up to touch the tight, lean planes of his body. He feels possessed, like he’s barely in control of his own body, and he doesn’t know how much of that is an excuse he’s giving himself.

“Ah, Mr. Stark, you-” Peter breaks off in a yelp as Tony nips at his pulse point. He clings to Tony, melting into the couch. Tony finally, finally moves up to kiss his mouth. God. He’s been thinking about this for too long. He wants it so much he feels sick with it. The kiss is filthy and sloppy, too much tongue, but Peter doesn’t seem to mind, gasping and panting into Tony’s mouth, clumsily kissing back. Tony pets at the trembling, shaking muscles of his stomach, devours the tiny little whimper Peter makes. He’s so wonderfully oversensitive. He reaches down further and feels that Peter is fully hard already, and cups him through his jeans.

“Do you like that, sweetheart?” he murmurs. Peter nods frantically, clutches at Tony’s shirt, his hips jerking up into Tony’s touch. He keeps making these loud, inarticulate, completely uncontrolled noises. It’s so fucking hot. Tony wonders what kind of noises he makes when he gets fucked. He wants to see Peter break apart like that underneath him. He wants to burn every second of this into his brain, for the long, empty nights ahead. 

“That’s it, just like that,” he says, encouraging Peter to grind into his hand.

He goes to unbutton Peter’s jeans, but Peter suddenly grabs his wrist in a strong, unmovable grip. His eyes are huge and dark and wanting. He’s panting hard, and has to swallow a few times before he can speak.

“Don’t – you don’t want – we shouldn’t be doing this,” he says finally.

Ugh. Tony knows that, obviously. Why does Peter have to remind him of that?

“You’re really drunk,” Peter says, again.

“Of course I am,” Tony says, from where he’s gone back to pressing soft little kisses to Peter’s face and neck. “Do you think I’d be doing this sober?” Peter tenses at that and jerks his head away hard.

“Then _stop_ ,” he says. He sounds upset. Tony stops.

“Sorry,” he says, pulling back. There’s a tense, unhappy expression on Peter’s face, his mouth pressed into a thin line. Tony can’t think straight. “Sorry, I didn’t mean- I thought you liked it.” Completely inadequate. He goes to get off the couch, but he’s far enough gone that when he tries to stand up straight he wobbles hard, and would have fallen flat on his ass if Peter didn’t grab him and lower him back onto the couch.

“I- I did like it, that’s not the point,” Peter says, but he still looks upset. “You’re going to regret this in the morning.”

“Sorry,” he says again. “I fucked up. You shouldn’t have to see me like this.”

“It’s okay, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, expression softening. “It’s not your fault.”

It is, though. It always is. He thinks he manages not to say that part out loud.

“I don’t want to ruin this,” Tony says instead. _Us. You._ He doesn’t know how he’d ever live with himself, if he did. If he had brought Peter back, after everything, only to lose him again because of his own fuck up. 

“You won’t. You can’t,” Peter says. Tony would love to have some of his optimism. “Maybe you should just… go to sleep now, alright? We can talk about it tomorrow.” 

Tony doesn’t want to end it there. He wants to apologize again. He wants to go back in time and punch himself in the face so he never makes Peter look upset like that ever again. But he’s still dizzy, and a little nauseous, and sleep suddenly sounds like a great idea. He slumps fully on top of Peter, hears Peter make a winded little noise, and presses his head over Peter’s heart. The steady heartbeat grounds his spinning head, and he breathes with its rhythm.

“I guess that counts,” Peter says, and Tony dares to think there’s fondness there.

Time stretches out, sticky and fuzzy, until he can barely remember anything except the heartbeat pounding in his head, and that Peter is here, and real, and alive.

“This is nice,” he says, eventually. “I like this.” He pauses, thinks about it. “I like _you._ ” He wants to say something more profound, but in his current state that’s what it boils down to. He really likes Peter. He shouldn’t, but he does, and right now he’s curled up against him on the couch. It’s nice. His horrible decisions are already melting into the background. He can deal with them in the morning. 

“I like you too,” Peter says, barely audible. He shifts a little, not to dislodge Tony but to pull a blanket from the chair next to him. Tony feels it drape over him, feels Peter’s hand settle in his hair very gently.

He thinks he hears from somewhere above him, very, very low:

“I just hope you’ll like me this much in the morning.”

But he can’t be sure, and the next moment he’s out like a light.

**Author's Note:**

> Any comments or feedback are super welcome. For some ~mysterious reason~ I suddenly have a lot more time to spend at home for the foreseeable future, so I'm hoping to be able to write a lot more!


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